


Pain

by SilverFliesInBlueSugar (orphan_account)



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21539137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/SilverFliesInBlueSugar
Summary: So delightful, yet terrible.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 199





	Pain

See, Martin hated pain.

It was awful. Gross, really, especially since it was normally caused by torture, beatings, or the end of a dirty syringe.

His father loved hurting him, causing the most pain as possible. Beating him until he was too injured to move or even speak, mouth letting out garbled noises as he wondered if the entirety of his ribcage was broken. Where he had to put his arm in a sling or hobble with a crutch due to broken bones. It was hellish. And no one cared. After all, 'kid of a crime boss, not our business if we wanna keep our heads.'

He hated pain. But he especially hated the sort he couldn't control.

What he could control was both vast and minimal. He slept around behind his father's back; behind everyone's back. Men were lured into his bed in the nights, and he would let the agony of ectsasy tide him into the morn'.

He did drugs, almost every sort he could find. Weed, Cocaine, Heroin, Marijuana, PCP. More often than not he was in a dissociative state and wildly hallucinating.

He drunk, and smoked, and learnt how to use a gun. Learnt the exact place to aim at for maximum damage... Or maximum gore.

He hated pain, but he also loved it. It was all that was left keeping him going as day turned into night ad infinitum and the bruises never quite healed.

\---

Alastor loved pain, ever since he was a child.

His mother would scold him when he slammed his own hand in doors or pressed his wrist against the stove top, but he just laughed when she asked him what the fuck he was doing. To her credit, she was the perfect mother for him. She ate the dead rabbits he brought home, and never once flinched at his neverending grins. She taught him how to cook and how to kill. How to hide a body.

His father hit him, again and again, until Alastor crept into his bed at night and stuck the dinner knife in his neck just right. The bastard didn't even have time to scream before he was soaked in his own blood.

His mother was taken to an institution after displaying hysterical episodes. Alastor was taken into foster, and ignored everyone else. Only focused on the pain.

In place of what was once his mother's warmth and tolerance came the ache of a blade against his inner arm. His smile never faltered, even as he sliced through layers of his own flesh until his sleeves were stained crimson. It spread to his thighs, his stomach, his neck. Into adulthood, he found it a rather difficult vice. 

Though of course, he found a difficult vice. And the corpses slowly grew.

Pain was strange, but with the hatred and love intertwining, a little like himself and Angel, Alastor found he loved it more than anything else.

Angel hated when Alastor dug his claws into him, hated when his teeth cut his lip when they kissed and drew blood, hated how tightly the radio demon held onto him.

But it was fun, and a distraction, and who cared. So he pushed away his reseverations and let the night envelop him with the pleasure.


End file.
